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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082973">folk songs: interludes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome'>talkwordytome</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Emily-verse (Ratched) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ratched (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blanket Forts, Christmas, Emily-verse, F/F, Ficlets, Flowers, Fluff, Gardens &amp; Gardening, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Kidfic, Language of Flowers, Lesbian Moms, Nightmares, Snapshots, Sniffles, Snow, Snow Days, Snowmen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:02:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>in which this is a collection of ficlets (I don't think any will be longer than 2,500 words, max) of scenes that all take place during the first year of the Emily-verse, but I couldn't fit them all into <i>folk songs</i> proper. (/I didn't think of them when I was writing that fic 😬)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwendolyn Briggs &amp; Emily (original character), Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched, Mildred Ratched &amp; Emily (original character)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Emily-verse (Ratched) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>134</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. knees (june 1953)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is going to be a mix of original ideas and requests I've received from people. If I'm fulfilling a request, I'll make sure to gift that chapter to the person who asked for it!</p><p>This is going to be 12 chapters--one for each month of that first year. I may or may not work on other longer things as I'm doing this. We shall see.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mildred is lounging on the living room sofa as she drinks a glass of lemonade and reads Gwendolyn’s copy of <i>From Here to Eternity</i>. It’s a slow, languid afternoon; it’s Gwendolyn’s first week back at work since Emily came to stay, and Mildred finds she doesn’t at all mind the bit of solitude it grants her. She’s already finished the chores she’d listed out for herself--in her neat, precise cursive--earlier that morning, and Emily is out front practicing on her new roller skates. Mildred turns the page in her book. She takes an indulgent sip of lemonade and presses the cool, perspiring glass to her temple. She sighs happily and flexes her toes in a sleepy little stretch.</p><p><i>Slam-bang</i>!</p><p>Mildred starts, spilling drops of lemonade on her sherbert colored sundress, when she hears the screen storm door whip shut, followed by the dull thud of the heavier wooden front door. There’s a metallic clattering sound that Mildred recognizes as Emily’s skates being dropped to the ground. Then, rapid, sneakered thumps as Emily races up the stairs.</p><p>“Emily?” Mildred calls. “Honey, are you okay?”</p><p>“Fine!” Emily answers, but there’s a thick, watery quality to her voice that immediately raises Mildred’s suspicions.</p><p>Mildred frowns. She closes <i>Eternity</i> and sets it aside, along with her glass. She pushes herself up off the sofa and listens. She can just make out the quiet rush of water, like a bath running. She tiptoes out of the living room and up the stairs, stopping when she’s in front of Emily’s bathroom door. She knocks, three times.</p><p>“Emily?” she says softly. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Yes, it is, I’m fine, I promise,” Emily says, but the words hitch like she’s trying to keep from crying. </p><p>Mildred chews her bottom lip. She gently tries the doorknob and discovers that it’s unlocked. She opens the door a crack. “I’d like to come in,” she says, “if you don’t mind.”</p><p>When Emily doesn’t say anything to the contrary, Mildred opens the door a bit wider. Then wider still when she realizes Emily is huddled in a heap on the tiled floor. There’s water gushing from the bathtub tap, scalding hot based on the steam rising up to the ceiling, and an open bottle of iodine sitting next to Emily. Emily is using a washcloth to scrub at something on her right knee, and Mildred’s stomach twists when she sees that there’s blood dripping from it, all the way down towards Emily’s ankle. Her left knee is bloodied, too.</p><p>“Oh, Emily,” Mildred says, “did you fall when you were roller skating?” </p><p>She moves a few steps closer to Emily and bends over until they’re on the same level. “Here, let me help--” she starts, but Emily jerks away from Mildred’s reach, as though she’s been burned.</p><p>Emily frantically scrambles backwards, knocking over the iodine as she goes, which spills in a sharply pungent puddle on the floor. Emily’s arms fly up around her head and her eyes screw tightly shut. She turns so her body is angled sideways, away from Mildred. She’s shaking, enough that Mildred can see each tremor as it passes through her.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Emily sobs, still braced for impact, “I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me, it was an accident, I’ll clean up the mess, <i>please</i>.”</p><p>It’s a scene that could be pulled directly from Mildred’s own childhood, and she knows that she can’t go any closer, not yet, even though staying still is making her chest ache. She wants, desperately, to go to Emily, to take her into her arms. But she needs to be patient.</p><p>She leans back on her heels. She steadies her breath, which is rapid and ragged, and waits for her racing heart to slow. She stands up and gets an old, bleach stained towel from the cabinet beneath the sink. She makes quick work of mopping up the iodine then tosses the towel into the laundry hamper. She washes her hands and pulls her hair into a neat bun. She rolls up her sleeves. She opens the medicine cabinet and gets out a box of bandages, some gauze, and a small pair of scissors. She dampens a fresh washcloth and wrings out the excess water.</p><p>Emily’s sobs, by this point, have slowed to sniffles. She’s watching Mildred curiously through red eyes, blood still steadily dripping down her shins and onto her white bobby socks. Her defensive posture has loosened, and her arms are wrapped around her torso instead of being used to protect her face.</p><p>Mildred settles herself back on the floor next to Emily. She switches out the old washcloth Emily was using for her new one. </p><p>“You know,” Mildred says, dabbing carefully at Emily’s right knee, “you were right to disinfect the cuts. You just used a little too much iodine. It burned terribly, didn’t it?”</p><p>Emily nods mutely, staring at Mildred with frank astonishment. </p><p>Mildred unrolls the gauze and cuts loose a neat strip. “How about,” she says as she wraps Emily’s knee, “you tell me how you got hurt?”</p><p>Emily wipes her nose on her hand. “I was skating,” she says, a bit shakily, “and--and I wasn’t paying close enough attention to--to where I was going, and I was going really fast.”</p><p>“Oh really?” Mildred says. She places a final bandage on Emily’s right knee and sets to work on the left one.</p><p>“Yes,” Emily says. “Really, <i>really</i> fast. And I--I think I must’ve gone over a rock or a…or a stick, because I tripped and fell forward, hard, and scraped my knees.”</p><p>“Poor baby,” Mildred says sympathetically. “We’ll get you fixed, don’t worry.”</p><p>Once both knees are bandaged to Mildred’s satisfaction, she cleans the blood from Emily’s calves and ankles. She carefully removes one sock, then the other. Emily stifles a yawn, exhausted by the afternoon’s minor disaster. She blushes when Mildred giggles.</p><p>“I think someone might need a nap, hmm?” Mildred asks, eyebrows raised, the corners of her mouth twitching against a smile.</p><p>“Maybe,” Emily admits grudgingly. “Just a little one.”</p><p>Mildred stands and holds out a hand, which Emily takes in one of her own. They walk to Emily’s bedroom together, Mildred half-carrying Emily so she won’t have to put too much weight on her sore knees. Mildred gives Emily privacy while she changes back into her pajamas, then returns to tuck Emily into bed.</p><p>Emily blinks at Mildred from beneath her frilly pink comforter; the one that Gwendolyn picked out herself. Mildred is struck anew every time by how small and vulnerable Emily looks when she’s about to go to sleep. Mildred sits down on the edge of the bed. She cups Emily’s soft cheek and sighs.</p><p>“I know,” she says carefully, “that you’ve been taught to never expect sympathy when you’re hurt.” </p><p>Emily flinches, like she’s expecting retribution, but she calms when Mildred graces a soothing hand over her hair. </p><p>“It’s not like that here,” Mildred continues. “You’re safe here, Emily. You’re safe with Gwendolyn, and with me. I promise. This is your home, and I know that it will be very hard to believe this, but you don’t need to be afraid anymore.”</p><p>Emily nods, her eyes already beginning to droop shut. “Sleepy,” she says, and Mildred smiles.</p><p>“I’d no idea,” Mildred says. She hesitates for only a moment before she kisses Emily’s forehead. “You rest. I’ll wake you up in an hour or so.”</p><p>Emily sighs and pulls the blankets up to her chin. Pleased with her handiwork, Mildred goes to leave the room, but a mumble from Emily stops her short.</p><p>“Did you say something?” she asks.</p><p>“Love you,” Emily murmurs.</p><p>Mildred hides her beaming smile behind a shy hand, even though she knows Emily is long past the point of noticing anything by now. “Sweet one,” she whispers. “I love you, too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as ever, if you have requests you can leave them in the comments here, or you can drop me a line on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles 🥰</p><p>I already know the basic idea for each chapter of this particular fic, but am still v much taking requests for others!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. nightmare (november 1953)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The chapters aren't going to be posted in a month by month order, but that's fine because each one is self-contained which means there shouldn't be any kind of confusion.</p><p>You don't have to read the <i>folk songs</i> longfic in order to enjoy these little interludes, though it might help contextualize them some!</p><p>HIGHLY recommend listening to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4T3tMkjRig=%22nofollow%22"> the Mama Cass version of "Dream a Little Dream of Me"</a> while you read this. It is linked for your listening convenience 🥰</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mildred? Gwendolyn?”</p><p>Mildred, usually slow to rouse, sits up immediately at the sound of Emily’s voice in their doorway. Her small form swims in the dim light of very early morning, and Mildred squints until her shape becomes clearer. Her feet are bare, and Mildred thinks they must be freezing on their wooden bedroom floors. She has something clutched in her arms, a stuffed animal, likely the favorite bear she’s christened Ira. </p><p>“Emily?” Mildred says, her voice crackly with sleep. “Are you sick? Or is it another nightmare?”</p><p>“Nightmare,” Emily whispers. Mildred can hear the faint shame in the admission, and she immediately regrets how she phrased her question, as if one option were legitimate and the other babyish.</p><p>Gwendolyn is awake now, too. She rubs the heel of her hand against her left eye and sighs. She wordlessly pulls back the covers and scoots over so Emily has space in bed. Still, Emily hesitates. She usually does, as though she can’t quite let herself believe she’s being offered comfort without any punishment attached. She hugs the stuffed bear tighter against the trembling of her body. </p><p>It’s Mildred’s turn to get out of bed and coax Emily to them; the last nightmare, two nights ago, it was Gwendolyn’s. She reluctantly leaves behind the warmth of the blankets and Gwendolyn’s soft body and pads across the floor to Emily. She wraps an arm around her shoulders and gives her a drowsy, halfway hug. Emily hides her hot, tearstained face against Mildred’s ribcage. </p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Mildred murmurs.</p><p>“No,” Emily hiccoughs. “Too scary.”</p><p>Mildred guides Emily to bed and tucks her in next to Gwendolyn. She snuggles back in on her own side, Emily pressed between them like a flower. Mildred can feel the moment Emily’s tense little body begins to relax out of panicked fight or flight mode, and finds that she is suddenly swallowing back tears of her own. Gwendolyn, perhaps sensing this, reaches across Emily and takes Mildred’s hand. She squeezes it, two times. Mildred squeezes back.</p><p>Emily almost never wants to talk about her nightmares, although she has them in abundance. Even as she’s begun to adjust to her new home, even as Mildred and Gwendolyn have watched her blossom, there are still open wounds. Mildred knows better than perhaps anyone else that some of those wounds will take years and years to heal. And even then, they’ll scar. </p><p>It’s not just nightmares. Emily talks in her sleep--feverish babbling that disturbed Gwendolyn so profoundly the first time she heard it that she ran into the room and shook Emily until she woke. She sleepwalks, too. She’ll stand, glassy-eyed and unseeing, at the foot of Gwendolyn and Mildred’s bed, like some sort of girl-phantom. She tosses and turns, violently enough that she’s flung herself out of bed on more than one occasion. Gwendolyn is convinced Emily is going to break her collarbone this way, and subsequently insists that there always be extra pillows on the floor to cushion her fall.</p><p>The nightmares, though, are undoubtedly the biggest concern. They aren’t the ordinary nightmares of an ordinary child with an ordinary upbringing; they aren’t ones that can be soothed with a sip of water and a quick kiss to the forehead. These are nightmares that make Emily cry out, loudly enough that Gwendolyn and Mildred hear her all the way down the hall. They’re nightmares that leave her gasping, drenched with sweat, the covers twisted around her body like a straitjacket. They’re nightmares that don’t end when wakefulness comes. They’re nightmares that lead to harrowing panic attacks, panic attacks that can last hours, and all Mildred and Gwendolyn can do is hold Emily and try to keep her from accidentally harming herself.</p><p>Emily isn’t afraid of monsters in her closet, doesn’t mistake the branch scratching at her window for a wicked witch. Mildred doesn’t know, precisely, what Emily’s nightmares entail but she can certainly make an educated guess. She knows the contents of her own nightmares, and if she could, she would pick horror movie creatures, every single time.</p><p>This most recent one doesn’t seem to be too terrible, at least. Emily hasn’t fallen back to sleep, not yet, but her body is calm between Mildred and Gwendolyn’s. Her breathing is regulated and her tears have slowed to sporadic sniffles. Gwendolyn runs a hand through her rumpled, messy curls. </p><p>“Do you want to stay here?” Gwendolyn asks. “Or go back to your own bed?”</p><p>Mildred can practically sense Emily’s heart begin to race again. “Here,” Emily says, her voice shrill with anxiety. “Stay here, please don’t make me go back, please, I don’t <i>want</i>--”</p><p>“Hey, hey, none of that,” Mildred soothes. She rubs Emily’s back. “You can stay, sweetheart, that’s fine.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Emily whimpers, but Gwendolyn shushes her.</p><p>“You don’t need to apologize, baby,” she says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” </p><p>Emily yawns, but Mildred can tell she’s still fighting sleep. Her eyes flutter with the effort of keeping them open. Gwendolyn graces a hand over her eyelids. “You’re exhausted, poor thing,” she says. “Let yourself drift off, my love; we still have a few hours before it’s the real morning.”</p><p>Emily curls herself into a tight ball. “I don’t want it to come back,” she whispers.</p><p>“The nightmare?” Mildred asks gently.</p><p>Emily nods. She puts her thumb in her mouth, a habit Mildred and Gwendolyn have been helping her break, but Mildred doesn’t have the heart to deny her this small comfort. Not now. </p><p>“Will you--will you maybe tell me a story?” Emily asks around her thumb. “So I fall asleep thinking of that instead?” </p><p>Gwendolyn and Mildred exchange glances. “I think,” Mildred says carefully, “we may be a bit too tired to try and think up a story just now.”</p><p>“But,” Gwendolyn jumps in, when Emily’s chin begins to quiver, “tomorrow is a Saturday, yes? So instead of a story, how about we make all sorts of lovely, wonderful plans for how we can fill it, hmm? Would that do?”</p><p>Emily nods seriously. She tucks herself under Mildred’s chin and taps her gently on the arm. “Mildred starts,” she instructs.</p><p>The corners of Mildred’s mouth twitch. “Well,” she says through a yawn, “I think, first, we should sleep <i>very</i> late.”</p><p>“I agree,” Gwendolyn says. She scratches Emily’s back. “And when we wake up we’ll have breakfast in bed.”</p><p>“Blueberry pancakes,” Emily requests in a half-awake mumble.</p><p>“That’s decided, then,” Gwendolyn says. Her eyes are closed. “And then…and then we’ll go outside in our pajamas--”</p><p>“--with our coats <i>on</i>, however.”</p><p>Gwendolyn opens a single eye. “Yes, dear,” she says dryly to Mildred, “with our coats on. And we’ll pick flowers from the garden.”</p><p>“Chrysanthemums are blooming,” Mildred says, yawning again.</p><p>“Chrysanthemums are pretty,” Emily murmurs as her breaths begin to even and slow. “I like them.”</p><p>“So do I,” Gwendolyn whispers. “After that we can make cookies, and while they’re in the oven we can…we can build a fort out of blankets in the living room, and…”</p><p>She trails off when she realizes Mildred and Emily have both fallen to sleep. She kisses Emily’s forehead, and then Mildred’s. Mildred sighs happily and edges closer towards Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn drapes her arm across Emily’s body and rests it on Mildred’s hip.</p><p>“Good night, my darling girls,” she breathes. “Have sweet dreams, and dream of me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>How are we doin'? Still enjoying all the softness and sweetness and fluff? Nobody has a toothache, right? </p><p>Feel free to leave any requests here or drop me a line on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles 🥰</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. christmas (december 1953)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here, enjoy this extra sweet and soft early Christmas present from me to y'all 🥰</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December that year is cold and crisp--the hawkeye sun beaming faintly down from an upper corner of the slate blue sky. The air tastes like snow, and every morning Emily patiently endures Mildred bundling her into layers and layers of outer-clothes before she’s allowed to walk to school. Mildred and Gwendolyn spend a sleety Saturday afternoon rooting around the attic for the Christmas decorations, though Gwendolyn imposes periodic breaks when all the dust starts sending Mildred into sneezing fits. Emily cuts snowflakes and gingerbread men out of construction paper and tapes them to the windows. Mildred bakes tray upon tray upon tray of Christmas cookies, more than they should be able to eat, and yet they somehow still manage it.</p><p>They’re lounging by the fireplace one evening after dinner. Emily is sprawled on the floor, lying on her stomach as she makes Christmas cards for her group of school friends. Mildred is lying with her head in Gwendolyn’s lap as she sips on a mug of hot chocolate. </p><p>“Emily,” Gwendolyn says suddenly.</p><p>“Yes?” Emily answers, only briefly looking up from her work. She is concentrating hard enough that her tongue is poking out of the side of her mouth.</p><p>“What would you like for Christmas, sweet girl?” Gwendolyn asks. </p><p>Emily has made it abundantly clear that she does <i>not</i> believe in Santa, so they’ve not bothered with pretending. <i>Really</i>, Mildred said to Gwendolyn when she expressed minor disappointment at not getting to share that particular magic with Emily, <i>would you, if you’d been in her position? Santa isn’t exactly known for visiting foster homes</i>. Gwendolyn’s disappointment had all but evaporated, and been replaced with indignance and a determination to give Emily the best Christmas morning a child could want.</p><p>“We’ve already gotten you a few things, of course, but I’m sure you have ideas too,” Gwendolyn continues.</p><p>Emily sets her crayon down. She pulls herself into a sitting position and turns around to face Gwendolyn. She cocks her head to the side, thinking. </p><p>“I don’t have any ideas, really,” she says slowly, blushing. “I’ve--I suppose I never really had to think about it before this year.”</p><p>Gwendolyn purses her lips at the matching expressions of faint sadness that flash across Emily and Mildred’s faces following Emily’s admission. “Why don’t you try making a list?” Gwendolyn suggests. “Anything you want; anything at all. We can’t promise we’ll get you everything, of course, but it’s good to have options.”</p><p>“<i>Options</i>,” Emily repeats, wide-eyed and mystified. </p><p>“It means <i>choices</i>,” Gwendolyn explains, but Emily shakes her head.</p><p>“No, I know what it means,” she says. She returns to her cards. “<i>Options</i>,” she murmurs again, the tips of her ears turning pink with pleasure and anticipation.</p><p>A neatly folded piece of lined paper appears on Gwendolyn and Mildred’s bed two nights after that conversation. It’s even addressed: <i>Gwendolyn Briggs and Mildred Briggs-Ratched, the Big Bedroom, the Red Brick House with Green Shutters, New Rochelle, New York, America</i>. They’re giggling as they unfold it to read.</p><p>
  <i>Dear Gwendolyn and Mildred,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Here is my Christmas list. I tried very hard to make it. I am not sure what children usualy get for Christmas. I thought I would ask my friends but then I felt silly so I did not. If it is wrong I am sorry and you do not have to use it. I am still learning how to do this, I think. Any way here is the list.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>1 pare of winter gloves (red)<br/>
5 pares of wool socks (1 for each day of the week)<br/>
A new school bag<br/>
1 winter hat (red with a pom on top)<br/>
a new dress (blue would be pretty I think and with puffed sleeves like Anne from Anne of Green Gables if you can)<br/>
1 new pare of Mary Janes for school<br/>
1 new pare of rain galoshes (red)<br/>
1 new rain coat (red with silver faseners)</i>
</p><p><i>Love,<br/>
Emily</i>     </p><p>Mildred is still smiling when she finishes reading, but Gwendolyn looks near tears. “Oh, please don’t cry,” Mildred coos. She takes Gwendolyn’s face in her hands. “Why are you so sad, darling?”</p><p>Gwendolyn sniffles and shakes her head. “It’s just so…so <i>practical</i>,” she says, gesturing at Emily’s list. She sighs and falls back against her pillows. “I suppose it still sometimes catches me off-guard.”</p><p>Mildred lies down next to Gwendolyn and wraps a gentle hand in her curls. “What catches you off-guard?” she asks softly. She wipes away Gwendolyn’s tears with careful fingertips.</p><p>Gwendolyn takes a moment to come up with the right words. “Just…Emily,” she finally tries, “and you, too; the rules the two of you were taught you had to follow, the way the world made you believe you could only ever ask for so much. That asking at <i>all</i> could be dangerous.”</p><p>“She’s a little girl, Mildred,” she adds, nearly pleading. “She should be asking for…for toys and hair ribbons. Things she <i>wants</i>, not things she <i>needs</i>.”</p><p>Mildred rolls onto her stomach and props her chin in the palm of her hand. She kicks her legs and chews her bottom lip as she thinks. “When you grow up,” she says slowly, “the way I did, and Emily did--or used to, I suppose--you…you come to see <i>anything</i> as a want. Even if it’s something you need.” </p><p>She kisses Gwendolyn’s cheek. “Does that make sense?”</p><p>Gwendolyn sighs. “Yes,” she says, “though I wish it didn’t.”</p><p>They buy Emily everything from her list, along with so many new toys, books, and games that Mildred frets that they’re going to run out of hiding spaces. They end up storing much of it in the upstairs linen closet and imposing a strict off-limits rule. Emily, delighted at the prospect of receiving gifts, has no desire to peek anyway. </p><p>Christmas is ten days away the afternoon Emily, home sick with a head cold, sidles up to Mildred and asks where they keep all the pictures Gwendolyn takes with her Kodak Brownie.</p><p>Mildred takes a sip of her coffee and thinks. “The attic, probably,” she says. “I know I’ve seen boxes of photos up there. Why?”</p><p>“Top secret,” Emily says. “That’s classified information, thank you. Are there ones with me in them too, do you think?”</p><p>“I’m sure there are,” Mildred says. She pushes off the kitchen counter, against which she’s been leaning. “Come on, we can go up and I’ll help you--”</p><p>“<i>No</i>,” Emily says, so firmly that Mildred startles and nearly spills her coffee.</p><p>“Goodness, Emily,” she says, “why not?”</p><p>Emily huffs an annoyed breath. “First of all, it’s a surprise,” she says, “<i>and</i> the attic makes you sneeze. So please just pull down the ladder because I’m too short to do it on my own.”</p><p>Mildred bites her lip. “Sweets, I don’t know,” she says, “it’s a mess up there, and I don’t want you to trip and get hurt.”</p><p>Emily plants her hands on her small hips. “You don’t think I can navigate around a few boxes on my own?”</p><p>Mildred swallows the laugh threatening to escape. “A fair point,” she says dryly, “but if you need any help--<i>any</i> at <i>all</i>--you yell down for me. Am I clear?”</p><p>“I won’t need any help,” Emily mutters.</p><p>Mildred raises a single eyebrow and waits.</p><p>Emily rolls her eyes. “<i>Fine</i>,” she eventually allows. “If I need help, I’ll yell.”</p><p>Mildred more or less forgets about Emily’s secret project in the busy final stretch leading up to Christmas morning. There’s wrapping to do and stockings to fill. Mildred helps Emily prepare little packages of homemade cookies and fudge to pass out at her class Christmas party. One evening, Mildred, Gwendolyn, and Emily drive around the neighborhood to look at all the lights. They vote on the ones they think are best; Mildred favors simpler, more elegant displays, but Gwendolyn and Emily agree the gaudier the better.</p><p>Gwendolyn talks them into midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Emily wears a flouncy red dress that’s trimmed with lace. She stoically tolerates all the old women who come up to her to pinch her cheeks and tell her that she looks like a little doll. Emily is alert and interested despite the late hour. The service is conducted in Latin, but Emily watches the rituals with fascination regardless. She likes the hymns most of all; “O Holy Night” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” are her favorites.</p><p>Emily does fall asleep during the car ride home. Mildred and Gwendolyn carry her into the house and wake her enough so she can change into her pajamas. They tuck her into bed and kiss her on the forehead. Emily gazes up at them with heavy, drowsy eyes.</p><p>“Can we have pancakes tomorrow?” she mumbles. “With chocolate chips?”</p><p>“Whatever you want, angel,” Gwendolyn says. She pulls the blankets tighter around Emily’s shoulders. “Go to sleep now. When you open your eyes again it’ll be Christmas morning.”</p><p>When they wake the next morning there’s nearly six inches of snow on the ground. This is their third Northeast winter but Mildred is still endlessly fascinated by snow, something Gwendolyn, for her part, finds endlessly charming. When Gwendolyn wakes up, Mildred is already standing at the window watching the flurries as they drift prettily down. Her feet are bare and her red hair is a waterfall tumbling down past her shoulders.</p><p>“Hey you,” Gwendolyn says, her voice still crackly with sleep. “Come back to bed before you catch a chill.”</p><p>Mildred pouts and takes one more long look at the snow before she follows Gwendolyn’s directions. She snuggles back under the covers and tucks her feet under Gwendolyn’s warm calves. Gwendolyn squeals.</p><p>“Your <i>toes</i> are like <i>ice</i>!” she shrieks.</p><p>They’re still rough housing and giggling when Emily appears in their doorway. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and yawns. “Is it morning?” she asks.</p><p>“Yes it <i>is</i>, darling girl!” Gwendolyn says giddily. “It’s <i>Christmas</i>!”</p><p>Emily yawns again. “Gwen is being weird,” she says to Mildred.</p><p>Mildred laughs. “She’s just excited, honey,” she says. </p><p>Mildred clambers out of bed and puts on her slippers and robe. She drapes an arm around Emily’s shoulder. “Come on, sweet thing,” she says. “Let’s go make coffee and then we can start on all those presents, hmm?”</p><p>Emily’s eyes go almost comically round when she sees the bounty in the living room. Gwendolyn rests her hand on top of Emily’s head. “Everything under the tree is yours,” she says, smiling when Emily gasps. “Mine and Mildred’s are off to the side.”</p><p>Emily looks up at Gwendolyn, punch drunk with delight. “They’re <i>all</i> for <i>me</i>?” she asks.</p><p>“All for you,” Mildred confirms. She and Gwendolyn curl up together on the sofa with their mugs of coffee. “Well, go on and open them, silly.”</p><p>They watch as Emily eagerly rips green and red wrapping paper off dolls and chapter books, board games and Lincoln Logs, Play-Doh and a View-Master. The biggest present is her own little record player and some new 45s, which excites her such that she throws herself onto the sofa so she can wrap Gwendolyn and Mildred in a fierce hug.</p><p>“Your turn,” Emily says expectantly once she’s finished.</p><p>Mildred’s favorite presents are a cream colored cashmere blanket and a red Le Creuset French oven. Gwendolyn’s favorites are the Nat King Cole record--his newest album, <i>Harvest of Hits</i>--and a beautiful early edition of <i>Leaves of Grass</i>. The latter causes Gwendolyn to burst into tears, and she has to take a few minutes to compose herself before the gift opening can continue.  </p><p>They are all three in a contented, sleepy tangle on the sofa when Emily shyly informs Gwendolyn and Mildred, “I have something to give to you.”</p><p>“Oh, sweetheart,” Gwendolyn says, “you didn’t need to get us anything.”</p><p>“Yes, but I <i>wanted</i> to,” Emily says. “And besides, I didn’t <i>get</i> anything. I made it.”</p><p>She disappears upstairs for a few minutes, and when she returns she’s clutching a large, square package in her arms. It’s painstakingly wrapped with a considerable amount of tape and tied with an enormous, messy red bow. She sets it between Mildred and Gwendolyn and eyes them anxiously. </p><p>“It’s fine if you don’t like it,” she says, fidgeting. “It’s all from the attic, so I can just take it apart and put it back. You can tell me; I promise I won’t be upset.”</p><p>“Baby,” Mildred says gently, “whatever it is, I’m positive we’ll love it because it came from you.”</p><p><i>It</i> ends up being a brown leather photo album, one Gwendolyn bought years ago with the intent to fill but hasn’t ever found the necessary spare time. Inside the album are photos, all of them of Mildred and Gwendolyn and Emily, each one carefully labeled with a date and a short description in Emily’s tidy, rounded cursive. It’s a time capsule of the past seven months: Gwendolyn and Emily up to their knees in the ocean; Mildred teaching Emily how to knead bread dough; Emily dressed up as a cowgirl for Halloween; Mildred and Emily at the Natural History Museum; the three of them on the sofa, pulling silly faces, that must’ve been taken by Trevor. </p><p>Emily watches nervously as Gwendolyn and Mildred carefully, silently look through the album. “Is it okay?” she finally blurts, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I couldn’t fill the whole thing, there aren’t enough photos, but I thought that way we have room to take more. I thought since the album was empty it would alright if I used it, but if it’s not--”</p><p>Mildred and Gwendolyn quiet Emily by grabbing her and pulling her back onto the sofa. They both have tears rolling down their cheeks but neither of them care. Gwendolyn kisses Emily on one cheek and Mildred kisses her on the other. </p><p>“Emily,” Gwendolyn says, “this is the greatest present I’ve ever gotten, bar none.”</p><p>“Really?” Emily asks hopefully.</p><p>“<i>Yes</i>,” Mildred says emphatically. “It’s perfect.”</p><p>The snow falls steadily out the window and the Christmas tree lights glitter and glow. Emily has her head in Mildred’s lap and her feet in Gwendolyn’s as she reads her new copy of <i>Ginger Pye</i>. Mildred and Gwendolyn go back through the photo album, affectionately arguing when their recollections of an event differ.</p><p>“Mildred?” Emily says after a few minutes. “Gwen?”</p><p>“Yes, angel?” Gwendolyn asks.</p><p>“Do we really get to do this <i>every</i> year?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>how are we doin'? anyone have fun plans for the Weird Pandemic Christmas?</p><p>if you have any requests, as ever feel to leave 'em here or drop me a line on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles. I LOVE all the requests I've gotten so far, and y'all leave such sweet comments that I would love to do something for you in return 🥰</p><p>in case anyone was wondering, I hc them living in New Rochelle because that's where <i>The Dick Van Dyke Show</i> was set and I have so much fondness for that show.</p><p>ALSO about a week ago I realized that I'd not only moved Mildred and Gwen to New York, but Andrew, Trevor, and Anna right along with them. WHOOPS. I've decided my new hc for <i>that</i> is Trevor and Andrew moved to NYC post-Mexico time (for the activist queer scene but also more importantly to be closer to Gwen and Mildred). I also hc that Mildred and Anna keep in touch (the show indicated they might), and that during a phone call Mildred told her that she and Gwendolyn were moving to NY state, and Anna decided to follow as a change of pace. The second one is a tiiiiiiiiiny bit of a stretch, perhaps, but it works for my purposes. (And, truly, is it any more of a stretch than some of the *actual* plot points on <i>Ratched</i>?! Like. Come on now.)</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. garden (june 1954)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry merry, my loves! To all who celebrate. To those who do not I hope you had a positively swell day!</p><p>VERY MUCH need to shout out wildnessbecomesyou for teaching me all sorts horticultural facts and tidbits for this fic! Who knew that hydrangeas could change color?! Well. Her, apparently, but certainly not <i>moi</i>.</p><p>This fic is MUCH more Gwen-centric than most other Emily-verse fics have been, which was a lot of fun to do. I hope y'all enjoy it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as the weather is nice enough, Gwendolyn spends most of her weekends working in her garden, happy among the pastel flowers and firm green buds and birdsong. She calls it her therapy. There are few things she finds more soothing than plunging her hands into the soil while the early summer sun warms her shoulders. There’s something deeply satisfying, too, about knowing that with a little water and light and care the bulbs and seeds she plants will blossom into something beautiful. </p><p>Mildred often joins her, mostly because Gwendolyn insists on it; the fresh air is good for Mildred’s lungs, particularly after a long winter spent indoors. Mildred wears an oversized straw sun hat to protect her fair skin, and she reclines in a patio chair to watch as Gwendolyn weeds and putters. Sometimes she reads, or sketches still lifes of the sky, the trees, the flowers. Gwendolyn doesn’t mind. It reminds her of the slow mornings she would spend in the Pacific, swimming her laps, while Mildred was tucked away in a cove. Once upon a so very long ago. </p><p>Emily is interested, but even after nearly a year she’s occasionally still shy around Gwendolyn in ways she is not around Mildred. Emily, Mildred has observed, is shy around most adults. It doesn’t appear to come from a place of mistrust, not exactly; it seems more to Mildred that Emily is worried she’ll be a disappointment if she’s somehow different than what’s been anticipated. Gwendolyn senses this, Mildred knows, and is gentle with Emily; she lets Emily move and grow at her own pace. Mildred can tell how difficult it sometimes is for Gwendolyn--beautiful, wonderful problem solver that she is--but Gwendolyn is patient. She’s patient, and she’s good. She might be the best person Mildred has ever met.</p><p>One Saturday in early June, Gwendolyn is out in the garden alone. Mildred is spending her day indoors, which is a directive from Gwendolyn. She’s fighting a cold, the same one she gets every year as spring kaleidoscopes into summer. It’s nearly noon but she’s still in her pajamas and a kimono, watching Gwendolyn from the kitchen window as she nurses a mug of tea. Emily is situated at the table with <i>Charlotte’s Web</i>, though Mildred does not miss the way her eyes keep flitting away from her book and towards the window. Mildred smiles. She joins Emily at the table.</p><p>“You know,” she whispers, leaning in towards Emily like she’s telling her a secret, “you can always go out and keep her company. I would, but…” she trails off, gesturing at herself with a crumpled tissue.</p><p>Emily folds the corner of the page she’s reading. She closes the book and taps her fingers on the cover. She sighs. “Won’t I bother her?” she asks.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Mildred says firmly. “And besides, between you and me, my dear, she needs someone out there to make sure she’s not over-exerting herself.” She winks.</p><p>Mildred pokes Emily gently in the stomach until Emily finally giggles. Emily props her chin in her hands and considers Mildred. “I’ve never lived anywhere with a garden before,” she says. “I’ve always wanted one, like Mary Lennox in <i>The Secret Garden</i>. But there wasn’t anyone I could ask to give me a bit of earth.” She thinks for a moment. “Well, I suppose I could have, but they would’ve been angry at me, probably.”</p><p><i>Oh, baby girl</i>, Mildred thinks. <i>Sweetest child in the universe, love of my life</i>. “Emily,” she says seriously, “I cannot imagine there’s anyone in the history of the world who would ever wish more desperately to give you your bit of Earth than Gwendolyn Briggs.”</p><p>Emily peers up at Mildred from beneath her long eyelashes. “Really?” she asks, and the word is filled with such hope that Mildred wonders if it might just crack her wide open.</p><p>“Really,” Mildred confirms. She stands up and kisses the crown of Emily’s head. “Wear old tennis shoes,” she instructs, “and play clothes.” She raises an expectant eyebrow. “Assuming you plan on helping, that is.”</p><p>“I do,” Emily says hurriedly, skittering out of her seat. “I really do.”</p><p>Gwendolyn is occupied with a hydrangea bush that needs pruning when Emily tentatively appears at the edge of the garden, so at first Gwendolyn does not notice her. Emily scratches at a mosquito bite on her left elbow. She shifts her weight from one skinny leg to the other. She tugs at the bottom of the old camp shirt she’s very nearly outgrown. She clears her throat. Gwendolyn whips around.</p><p>“Emily!” she exclaims, surprised to see her but not in the least unhappy. “Hi, sweetie. Do you need something? Is Mildred alright?”</p><p>“Mildred is fine,” Emily says. “Well, she’s drippy,” she waves vaguely at her own nose, “but other than that she’s fine.”</p><p>Gwendolyn throws back her head and laughs at this, full-throated and delighted. She wipes sweat from her forehead and leaves a smudge of dirt behind. She puts the hand not holding the shears on her hip. “What can I do you for, honey?”</p><p>Emily squirms. “I--well,” she starts, then falters. She shoves her hands inside the pockets of her pedal-pushers. “I thought, maybe, I could help? Help you in the garden, I mean.” She blushes. “Mildred said someone should make sure you don’t over…over-<i>exert</i> yourself. But I don’t know what that means, exactly.”</p><p>Gwendolyn’s eyes twinkle. “She means,” she says dryly, “that I’m going to be an old woman soon.”</p><p>Emily’s eyes go very wide. She shakes her head quickly back and forth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says. Her neck and cheeks color peony pink. “I--I didn’t mean to…Mildred, she <i>said</i>--but I don’t, and--”</p><p>“Emily,” Gwendolyn says, smiling patiently. “I’m teasing, that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.” </p><p>Emily nods. She bites her bottom lip, a habit she seems to have picked up from Mildred. She rocks back and forth on her heels. “Do you know <i>The Secret Garden</i>?” she blurts.</p><p>“Yes,” Gwendolyn says, a bit absently, attention already back on the bush. “I love that book, very much. Why?”</p><p>Emily blows a mussed lock of hair from her face with a short puff of air. “Well,” she says, “do you know, when Mary…when she asks for a bit of earth?” Her gaze drifts to the hydrangea. “I would like that, I think. If you could give it to me.”</p><p>A misty film of tears is shining in Gwendolyn’s eyes by the end of Emily’s little speech, rendering them even bluer. Her chin quivers and she presses her free hand to her breast. “Honey,” she says softly, her voice quavering.</p><p>“Mildred said you’d like it if I asked,” Emily says, slightly shrill and panicked. “I didn’t mean for you to <i>cry</i>…I didn’t <i>want</i>--”</p><p>Gwendolyn drops her shears to the ground and opens her arms. Emily only pauses for a moment before she falls into them. Gwendolyn holds Emily tightly against her and kisses her forehead. When they pull apart again Gwendolyn is still weepy, but on her face she wears a beaming smile. </p><p>“They’re happy tears,” Gwendolyn promises, before Emily can ask. “Emily, I will gladly give you every single bit of earth your heart desires.”</p><p> “I think I would like to just start with this one here,” Emily says gravely.</p><p>Gwendolyn’s mouth twitches. “A more than reasonable request,” she says. She pushes a few loose strands of hair out of her eyes. “Have you ever gardened before?”</p><p>Emily shakes her head.</p><p>“Good,” Gwendolyn says briskly. “We can start fresh.” She claps her hands together. “Where would you like to begin?”</p><p>Emily ponders the question before she answers. “What are you doing to that bush?” she asks, pointing to the hydrangea. “And what’s it called?”</p><p>“That’s a hydrangea,” Gwendolyn says. “<i>Hydrangea macrophylla</i>, if you’re being fancy, though I’m not.” She laughs, and Emily does too, though she doesn’t quite understand what’s funny. “I’m pruning it.”</p><p>“Pruning?”</p><p>“Cutting away the blooms that have died,” Gwendolyn says, “so new ones can grow in their place.”</p><p>Emily nods. “I like that.”</p><p>Gwendolyn smiles. “So do I,” she says. “Would you like to learn something <i>very</i> interesting about hydrangea bushes?”</p><p>Emily bounces on the balls of her feet. “Ooh, yes please,” she says.</p><p>“So,” Gwendolyn begins, “this hydrangea is pink, <i>but</i> it doesn’t have to stay that way if we don’t want it to. We can change it from pink to blue, with a little bit of gardening magic.”</p><p>Emily cocks her head to the side. “How?”</p><p>“By altering the pH of the soil,” Gwendolyn explains. Upon a confused look from Emily, she elaborates, “How much acid there is. The lower the pH, the higher the acidity. When the soil is acidic enough, the blooms turn blue.”</p><p>“And,” she continues, “what really impacts the brightness and the shade of blue is how much aluminum is taken up by the plant--more aluminum means a bluer tint.”</p><p>“We can keep it pink, though, right?” Emily asks. “I like how it looks already.”</p><p>“Yes, darling,” Gwendolyn says patiently. “We can keep it pink. I’m about done pruning, but….” She looks around, thinking. “Oh! Would you like to try your hand at planting a few bulbs? Now’s the perfect time to get the gladiola in the ground.”</p><p>Emily hesitates. “I won’t mess it up?” she asks.</p><p>“I have total faith in your abilities,” Gwendolyn says cheerfully. “But I’ll show you first to put your mind at ease.”</p><p>Gwendolyn picks up a small trowel. She kneels in the soil and gestures for Emily to join her. “First,” she says, “you dig a small hole like this one.” She demonstrates, then takes a gladiolus bulb from its bag. “Then, you just stick it in the hole with the pointed side up and the roots down.”</p><p>“What if I can’t tell where the roots are?” Emily asks.</p><p>“Lay it on its side,” Gwendolyn answers, “and it’ll find its way to the surface. Bulbs are tenacious little things, not unlike yourself.” She drops the bulb into the soil. “Add a little bit of dirt on top, pat it down, and that, as Mildred likes to say, is that.”</p><p>She hands the trowel and the bulbs to Emily and leaves her to it. They work in companionable quiet for nearly a half hour, happy to orbit without touching in the sweet early summer air. Gwendolyn occasionally peeks over at Emily and is overcome with affection at the serious, focused expression on her face, consumed as she is with the important thoughts of her task.</p><p>“Did you know,” Gwendolyn eventually says, “that flowers have a language?”</p><p>Emily stands and brushes the dirt from her knees. She frowns. “A language?” she asks. “How?”</p><p>“Different colors and types mean different things,” Gwendolyn says. “Years and years ago, before it was proper for women to tell their loves how they felt, they would do it with flowers instead.”</p><p>Emily is completely entranced by this new information. “What flowers mean which things?” she demands breathlessly.</p><p>“Oh goodness,” Gwendolyn says. “I can’t remember too many off the top of my head….” She furrows her brow as she thinks. “I know that asters are for love, and gardenias are for love that must be kept secret, and hibiscus is for…beauty, I think. White lilies are for purity or sweetness, but yellow lilies are for gaiety or happiness.” She sighs. “I’m sure we could go to the library and find a book with more in it.”</p><p>Emily looks for a moment as though she wants to jump for joy before she reigns her enthusiasm in. Gwendolyn smiles, a bit sadly. <i>Someday, maybe even soon</i>.</p><p>“Yes, please,” Emily says. “I would like that very much.”</p><p>They’re gathering the gardening tools when Mildred, dressed now, wanders down the sloping back lawn. “How are my two favorite gardeners doing?” she asks. </p><p>Gwendolyn leans in to kiss Mildred, though Mildred turns at the last second and presents Gwendolyn with her cheek instead, muttering something about <i>germs</i>. Gwendolyn rolls her eyes. </p><p>“I’d very much like to kiss my wife,” Gwendolyn says, “assuming that’s still <i>allowed</i>.”</p><p>“And you <i>can</i>,” Mildred huffs, “but not on the mouth. Not unless you want my cold.” She sniffles, as if to demonstrate. </p><p>Gwendolyn pouts, and Mildred dithers for only a few seconds more before acquiescing. “You’re going to catch this,” Mildred murmurs once they’ve broken apart, “especially if you keep <i>smothering</i> me in my sleep.”</p><p>Gwendolyn turns pink and shoots a warning look in Emily’s direction. “<i>Little pitchers</i>,” she hisses, and Mildred giggles.</p><p>Gwendolyn links one arm through Emily’s and the other through Mildred’s. They amble back towards the house this way, Gwendolyn happy between her girls. “Lunch?” Gwendolyn asks, bumping her shoulder against Mildred’s.</p><p>“I thought sandwiches,” Mildred says, “and I made a pitcher of lemonade.”</p><p>“Lemonade sounds divine,” Gwendolyn says. “What do you say, Emily?”</p><p>“Divine,” Emily parrots in a sing-song voice. She swings the arm that holds Gwendolyn’s hand, then briefly lets go so she can turn a clumsy pirouette. She half-walks and half-skips next to them. “Gwendolyn?”</p><p>“Yes, sweet?”</p><p>“What would it be,” Emily asks, “for <i>happy</i>?”</p><p>Gwendolyn stares at Emily for a beat, confused by the question. Once she understands, though, a wide smile blooms across her face, like the bulbs they planted will eventually do, too. “That is a brilliant question, Emily,” Gwendolyn says, “and I bet we can find out.”</p><p>Mildred looks from Gwendolyn to Emily, smiling slightly. “What are the two of you up to?”</p><p>Emily sprints ahead and turns a cartwheel. She lands on her bottom in the grass. “It’s a secret language,” she yells, “but Gwendolyn and I will teach you.” She stands up and goes inside the house.</p><p>Mildred’s mouth is in a serious line but her eyes are laughing. “A secret language, huh?” she asks. </p><p>“Mhmm,” Gwendolyn says. She grins. “I just remembered one. <i>Pink camellia</i>.”</p><p>“<i>Pink camellia</i>?” Mildred repeats. “What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>Gwendolyn nips at Mildred’s neck and Mildred squeals. “It’s a secret,” Gwendolyn breathes, “but I’ll let you in on it if you’re very, very good.”</p><p>The kitchen window opens and Emily pokes her head outside. “Are you two finished making gooey eyes at each other?” she asks, affectionate and exasperated in turns. “I’m hungry.”</p><p>“Patience is a virtue,” Gwendolyn calls back. She kisses Mildred one more time, lingering and languorous. “We’d better go feed the munchkin.”</p><p>Just before they go inside, Mildred plucks a begonia blossom from the pot that hangs by the back door. She tucks it tenderly behind Gwendolyn’s ear. “This flower,” she says, “means <i>I love you</i>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Pink camellias mean "longing for you" in the language of flowers. Gwen, you insatiable flirt.</p><p>As ever, feel free to leave requests here or drop me a line on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. snow (january 1954)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>found myself wishing that Indiana was getting snow and not just this endless rain, so banged out this lil ficlet as a result. hope y'all enjoy 🥰</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Emily, for heaven’s sake,” Mildred says, exasperated, the fourth time the front door opens that hour, “the snow hasn’t changed. There’s no point measuring it this often.”</p><p>There isn’t an answer until Emily has finished her important task. “Shows what <i>you</i> know,” she says once she’s back inside. She sits on the floor to remove her boots, grunting with the effort of pulling them off. “At 7:30 there were five inches of snow, and now at 7:45 there are five-and-a-<i>half</i>.”</p><p>She hangs her coat in the front closet and leaves her scarf and gloves on the radiator to dry. She trails into the living room, where Mildred and Gwendolyn are snuggled on the couch as they watch <i>The Jack Benny Show</i>. They’re both sipping mugs of hot chocolate. When Gwendolyn sees Emily she scoots over slightly, then pats the spot that leaves between herself and Mildred. Emily doesn’t need to be invited twice.</p><p>Emily clambers onto the sofa and tucks herself beneath a colorful knitted throw. She’s wearing her warmest winter pajamas, per Mildred’s instructions, and her hair is still slightly damp from her bath. Mildred runs a hand through it, frowning.</p><p>“I wish you weren’t going outside with wet hair,” she frets. “You’ll catch an awful cold.”</p><p>Emily waves away Mildred’s concern. “It’s only for hardly a minute at a time,” she says. “And look, not a sniffle.” She breathes in deeply through her nose to demonstrate.</p><p>“Let her have her fun,” Gwendolyn says. She kisses Emily’s cold little cheek. “I did the same thing when I was a kid and it snowed. It’s part of the experience.”</p><p>“Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?” Emily asks. “It’s coming down so hard.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Gwendolyn warns, “but that would be fun, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“I’ll miss Miss Holland,” Emily admits, “but maybe if it’s not too cold Kathleen can walk over. We can go sledding, and make snow angels, and build a snowman, and when it gets too cold we can come inside and drink hot chocolate and make a blanket fort.”</p><p>Emily checks the snow once more as <i>Jack Benny</i> is ending, and twice during <i>Toast of the Town</i>. Each time Mildred anxiously reminds Emily to be sure she wears her scarf <i>and</i> her gloves. Emily politely refrains from rolling her eyes until she’s out the front door. She breathlessly reports her findings upon her return, and Gwendolyn listens with patient interest. </p><p><i>The Fred Waring Show</i>’s theme song kicks on, and Mildred reminds a pouting Emily that this is the signal for <i>bed</i>. </p><p>“Just a few more minutes?” Emily whines to Mildred and Gwendolyn as they walk upstairs. “Please? The last time I measured there were nearly seven inches, and I want to see if it gets all the way there.”</p><p>“We’ll be sure to measure for you,” Gwendolyn says seriously. </p><p>“And you’ll write it down in my notebook?” Emily asks, slightly mollified but still suspicious.</p><p>“Cross my heart,” Gwendolyn says. She winks at Mildred from above Emily’s head.</p><p>They tuck Emily in and kiss her three times each. Emily blinks up at them from underneath her pink comforter. “I don’t say bedtime prayers most nights,” she says, “but do you think God would mind if I asked for a snow day? Do you think it would be rude since I usually don’t check in with him?”</p><p>The corners of Gwendolyn’s mouth twitch and she very gamely holds in the laugh Mildred knows is threatening to bubble out. “I think God will understand, sweetie,” she says. </p><p>Mildred turns on Emily’s nightlight and Gwendolyn leaves her door ajar. They make it all the way downstairs before they both burst into hysterical giggles. Mildred wraps Gwendolyn in a hug and breathes hiccuping little laughs against the warm skin of her neck. </p><p>“She’s such a little <i>doll</i>,” Mildred says.</p><p>Gwendolyn hums her agreement. “Mmm.” She pulls back from Mildred and kisses her, long and slow. “I have an idea,” she murmurs, eyes glittering with some sort of a plan. “Go dress in your warmest clothes, including your outer-layers. Then meet me by the front door.”</p><p>Mildred frowns. “Gwendolyn,” she says warningly, but Gwendolyn won’t be dissuaded.</p><p>“You’ll have fun,” she says. “Promise.”</p><p>Mildred follows Gwendolyn’s directions so thoroughly that all that’s visible beneath her layers are her eyes, nose, and mouth. Gwendolyn, who is dressed warmly but not quite so bundled as Mildred, laughs when she sees her. Mildred sticks out her tongue. “I just did what you told me to do.”</p><p>They go for a snow walk, just a short one, up and back their block. “Beatrice and I did this with my father when we were girls,” Gwendolyn explains shyly. “He always said that snow that falls at night is more special than the snow everyone sees when they’re awake. That it was like our own little secret.”</p><p>Mildred squeezes Gwendolyn’s mittened hand. “I love that very much,” she murmurs, “almost as much as I love you.”</p><p>The snow falls steadily all through the night, and when Gwendolyn wakes the next morning to dress for work the entire world is nothing but a blanket of white. The sunrise renders the sky a glorious patchwork of purple and orange and pink. She puts on her slippers and flannel robe, then finds her way to the kitchen. Mildred is already at the table, drinking a cup of coffee as she listens to the radio. She smiles when she sees Gwendolyn. “Emily gets her snow day after all,” she says. “They just announced it. There’s over nine inches on the ground. I can’t imagine they want you at work today, either.” </p><p>Gwendolyn beams and kisses Mildred’s temple. She fills her own mug with coffee and takes a long, indulgent sip. “Shall we let the munchkin sleep?” she asks. “Or wake her and get started with our day?”</p><p>Mildred hums and leans forward on her elbows. “This may be just a bit selfish,” she says, her voice husky, “but I can think of some things I’d like to do with you in private.”</p><p>Gwendolyn blushes. “Really?” she says. “Please, do tell.”</p><p>Mildred’s smile widens. “If you don’t mind,” she says, “I’d much rather <i>show</i>.”</p><p>They are, fortunately, dressed again when Emily skids into their room and launches herself like a missile onto the bed. “<i>Snow day</i>!” she squeals, and squirms, giggling, when Gwendolyn tickles her. </p><p>She flips over onto her back, panting. Mildred adjusts Emily’s pajama shirt where it’s slipped from her shoulder. Emily peeks up at Mildred and Gwendolyn, grinning. “We have to go sledding,” she says. “Kathleen’s brother says the hill at the park is the <i>best</i>, that it’s like you’re really flying, and then we can make snow people, and have a snowball fight, which I’ve never done before but it sounds fun, and--”</p><p>“Baby,” Gwendolyn says gently, her hand on Emily’s curls, “slow it down. Let’s get some breakfast first, hmm? We’re not doing anything with empty tummies.”</p><p>Emily huffs. “Fine,” she says, “but can we have something more special than oatmeal? Because of the snow day?”</p><p>“I think that can be arranged,” Mildred says solemnly. </p><p>Mildred whips up a quick batch of chocolate chip pancakes, which Emily all but inhales in her rush to get outside. Gwendolyn makes her wait at the table until the resulting hiccoughs have gone away. “The snow will still be there,” she says firmly as Emily takes careful sips of water.</p><p>The roads are too slick to drive to the park, and Emily is disappointed only until Gwendolyn reminds her that nine inches of snow won’t be melting any time soon. Gwendolyn and Mildred dress in the same clothes from the night before. Mildred watches as Emily wraps up in a second sweater, a coat, gloves, a scarf, two pairs of socks, boots, and a hat Trevor knitted for her. She looks ready to demand additional layers, but a look from Gwendolyn stops her short.</p><p>It’s frigidly cold outside, cold enough that any bits of exposed skin immediately begin to feel numb, but none of them mind. Emily is slowed down slightly by the weight of her extra clothes, but she moves with purposeful determination. She picks up a handful of snow and packs it into a neat ball. She rolls her snowball across the ground until it forms a base big enough for a snowman. Mildred builds the middle, and Gwendolyn is responsible for the head.</p><p>Emily finds two smooth stones to use for eyes, and Gwendolyn gets a twig for its nose. Mildred uses a gloved finger to draw a wide, smiling mouth. She considers adding teeth, for realism’s sake, but Emily determines that would be too creepy. Gwendolyn agrees. </p><p>“His name is George,” Emily says when the snowman is complete.</p><p>“Hello, George,” Mildred says. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.”</p><p>Gwendolyn reaches out and shakes the stick that forms George’s left arm. </p><p>Their snowman complete, they spend some time making progressively larger snow angels until Gwendolyn, a mischievous smile on her face, whips a snowball at an unsuspecting Mildred. It hits her squarely in the chest and she gasps. She offers Gwendolyn an affronted look, and Gwendolyn is about to guiltily ask for forgiveness when Mildred throws a snowball of her own, getting Gwendolyn in the shoulder.</p><p>The snowball fight is fast and furious. They’re breathless and damp and laughing as they hurl handfuls of tightly packed snow at each other. Of the three of them, Mildred has the best aim, and her target more often than not is Gwendolyn. After a while Emily, impatient with the effort that goes into forming proper snowballs, starts tossing large armfuls of snow that don’t do much more besides fly back at her in the wind. </p><p>Gwendolyn herds them back indoors when Mildred’s teeth begin to chatter. Emily whines her displeasure until Gwendolyn promises hot chocolate. They strip off their wet outer layers in the foyer, all three of them chilled and happily tuckered out from their outdoor exertions. Mildred sneezes once as she’s removing her coat, a second time as she pulls off her gloves, and a third time as she unwinds her scarf.</p><p>“Hot shower,” Gwendolyn orders after the third. “<i>Now</i>.”</p><p>When Mildred finishes, she’s no longer shivering and her sniffles have slowed. She dresses in a pair of Gwendolyn’s pajamas and Gwendolyn’s bathrobe. Emily and Gwendolyn are in the kitchen. Emily has changed into dry clothes and is dancing in giggling circles to The Chords as Gwendolyn stirs two different pots on the stovetop. Mildred hugs Gwendolyn from behind. Gwendolyn twists in Mildred’s arms and plants a kiss to her cheek. She hums happily.</p><p>“Good,” Gwendolyn says, satisfied, “not so cold.”</p><p>“What are you making?” Mildred asks.</p><p>“Hot chocolate,” Gwendolyn says, pointing to one pot, “and this one,” she points to the other, “is Earl Grey tea with orange peel for your sniffles.”</p><p>Mildred rolls her eyes but is wise enough not to argue. Anyway, she reasons, a little extra vitamin c can only be helpful. </p><p>Emily grabs Mildred’s hands as an invitation to join the dancing as “Mister Sandman” blares out of the radio. Gwendolyn fusses without any real heat behind it whenever they get too close to the stove. As the song ends and Emily and Mildred catch their breath, Mildred says, “I believe you mentioned something yesterday about a fort?”</p><p>Mildred and Emily drag the chairs out from the dining room and use them as tent poles for the blankets. Emily rushes upstairs and gets the comforter and pillows and uses them to make a small, cozy nest on the floor inside the fort. They’ve just gotten settled when Gwendolyn comes into the living room, holding a tray laden down with a cookie plate and three gently steaming mugs.</p><p>“Thank you,” Mildred says as she accepts her tea. She takes a sip and sighs happily as it warms her from the inside out. “Oh, that’s lovely, Gwendolyn.”</p><p>The hot chocolate leaves a faint mustache above Emily’s lip, which Gwendolyn wipes away with the tip of her thumb. She sighs and falls back against the blankets and pillows. She covers a yawn behind her hand. “I think,” Gwendolyn says, “I could use a nap.”</p><p>Mildred sets her tea aside and curls up next to Gwendolyn. She yawns too, and sniffs, nuzzling her face into the softness of Gwendolyn’s sweater. “Me too.”</p><p>Gwendolyn kisses the tip of Mildred’s nose. “I bet,” she says, laughing softly. “Poor sniffly thing. My warm weather California girl.”</p><p>“<i>I’m</i> not tired,” Emily insists, even as her eyes threaten to droop shut. </p><p>Gwendolyn carefully removes Emily’s hot chocolate mug from her hands before she spills it on the blankets and herself. She pulls the top blanket up so it covers the three of them. She kisses Mildred on the forehead and then Emily. She smiles and feels herself physically relax as their breaths even out and slow.</p><p>Outside the snow has started falling again. The wind howls and complains, battering the windows and the side of the house. The weatherman on the radio mentioned something about freezing rain, and Gwendolyn wonders if they may just get another snow day. She closes her eyes. In this moment, though, it doesn’t really matter. In this moment, she’s safe and warm with her girls. There’s absolutely nowhere else she’d rather be.</p>
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